


Where We Left Off

by onepercent



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Fluff, M/M, Reincarnation, mostly - Freeform, not sad for once, ur welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 12:13:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6753355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onepercent/pseuds/onepercent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They find each other. They find love. They find, most importantly, their lives together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where We Left Off

**Author's Note:**

> I've been in a really bad place mentally these past few weeks and this was my stress relief. It isn't sad or depressing like my other works. Sorry I'm lagging so behind on e=mc^2, and I apologize for the fact that I will probably not get back to it and write another chapter until June. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Reincarnation hurts. John would know. 

It feels about as good as if the Hulk and gaggle of bodybuilders grabbed either of your arms and pulled really really hard, which is to say that it does not feel very good at all. 

It isn't absolutely awful though. He remembers once at the beginning of time drowning, the whole earth splashing about the sun wildly as he sank, God’s voice booming and disappointed—that was certainly more painful than getting a new body. When he bled to death on the side of the road years before the birth of Jesus, when he starved after the Gupta Empire fell, when he was shot after the Revolution had already been won (what an idiot he was), when he grew old and loved and weary and tripped and hit his head in the kitchen and slowly died on the floor while the new Jetsons episode tinkled out of the television in the living room over—those hurt so much more. Reincarnation hurts, but it is immediate. You skip years, centuries, but it is quick and that is all he can ask for, really.

Not everyone is reincarnated. It's a rare thing, reincarnation, one in a hundred million. He doesn't know the exact statistics but he knows not everyone is like him. Not cancer patients, not suicides, not kids who died before eighteen. The world owes them an eternity of happiness and health, not lifetime after lifetime of death and reality. Sculptors. People who favored neither cats nor dogs. Republicans, which is unfortunate, because he would have really loved to meet Abraham Lincoln but John wasn't alive quite yet, a shame. He had heard a lot of what he did for slavery, which he appreciates, for he spent twenty or so years fighting against it back, oh, three hundred years ago, two fifty. He is glad however that he will not be seeing a duplicate Ted Cruz in any life. Small pleasures. 

In this life, his dad is strict but not terribly so. His siblings are annoying but not terribly so. His classes are difficult, his heart aches, his years in the crowds of New York City are stressful, but nothing too terribly so. Average, but not average enough. 

This mind is sharp and quick. He had had to endure countless years of being idiotic and unintelligent so this is a nice change. This body is good, too (and his face is quite handsome as well, with freckles smattering his face just so), neither gluttonous nor fasting. Sturdy, strong, lean, quick. Good. Good, good. 

~

This is all new to Alex. He hasn't been reincarnated since, three hundred, two-fifty years ago, since he was shot on that day in Jersey, but of course he hardly would remember that. Not until he was older, forty-ish or fifty would the memories flood back. He was a new soul that time, and the first time you are placed into a new body hurts like hellfire melting his retinas. 

This body is small and short and has great posture, if he says so himself. Soft black hair, doey brown eyes. Cute. 

New York is nice, quick paced, relentless and unforgiving and comforting. A dull migraine constantly thumps the beats to the Rolling Stones always, a reminder of the pain of reincarnation maybe, but perhaps more of a reminder that his dad is dead and he isn't and his mom is at the mental hospital and won't come back and his sister hasn't talked to him since he was twelve. Perhaps it is merely a reminder to slow down and take an Advil. Whatever it is, it is not at the front of his mind. What is is a boy—er, man, really—approximately ten paces in front of him, the familiarly coming-undone pony perched on the back of his head wagging like a dog tail. He speeds up his short legs up to a moderate power walking speed and makes after him. 

~

John has the distinct feeling he is being watched. He had enough experience with this feeling before, what with living as a soldier or a spy or whomever too many times to count. But then a kid—well, more of a man, he supposes—bumps into his shoulder and the feeling flits away, dove with the branch over the sea, never seen again. 

~

“Hi,” Alex says. 

“Hi,” John says. 

It is not uncomfortable. Alex thinks of something to say. 

“It's been awhile,” Alex starts, pauses. “It's been awhile, and I can't say I've missed you because it's felt like no time at all. But it's been awhile and I appreciate you waiting. I love you. Would you like to kiss?”

John hesitates. Yes, he would like to kiss him. But he doesn't want to make a scene, his Black Lives Matter t-shirt already giving off a certain vibe. In every body he has wanted a boy like Alex. But in every body he has denied himself. 

“Later, please,” John says. 

“Okay,” Alex says. “Where are you headed? I'm off to the library if you're going nowhere in particular, I need to study for a new essay series I'm writing and exams are coming up quickly aren't they and I have a lot to do. So.”

“I'm going to the record shop,” John replies, fond memories of his vintage record-player sitting on an average table in his average apartment in his not quite average life dancing in the air of his mind, sweeping gowns and rose petals. Alex snickers. 

“Old fart,” he teases. 

“Old soul,” John corrects.

**Author's Note:**

> No I will not be continuing this, please don't ask. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> Feedback is eternally welcomed in the form of constructive criticism, praise, ideas for future works you might want to see written, or anything else you could think of.


End file.
